


autographs

by supremely sinful (I_Am_Not_A_Robot)



Series: HP x every single DADA teacher because these pairings need appreciation [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 2: Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Celebrity Crush, M/M, Narcissism, Obliviate | Memory Charm (Harry Potter), Obsession, One-Sided Attraction, Unreliable Narrator, except 28 yr olds shouldn't be crushing on 12 yr olds lmao, slightly OOC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:27:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29580948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Am_Not_A_Robot/pseuds/supremely%20sinful
Summary: There's something thrilling about being the famous Harry Potter's teacher... and Lockhart takes advantage of the chance to get so close to him.
Relationships: Gilderoy Lockhart/Harry Potter
Series: HP x every single DADA teacher because these pairings need appreciation [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2173194
Kudos: 24





	autographs

**Author's Note:**

> dang that was difficult! it's hard writing a narcissistic character, and i'm still not sure if i got lockhart's personality down but hey i tried my best?
> 
> (i just think it was so fun to write a guy who misinterprets everything around him so horribly lol like "what's this? someone's glaring at me? must be the sun their eyes, obviously everyone loves me" ahaha he's the unreliable narrator to beat all others)

One might believe that a celebrity like Gilderoy Lockhart wouldn't have time amid his successful, busy career to fawn over someone else. It just doesn't occur that the one who has millions of fans may become a fan of some other glittering idol, and now he couldn't believe it when that person—the one who'd captured his attention—walked through the doors of the bookshop and fought the crowd to get to where Lockhart had been signing books.

Harry Potter.

It was _Harry_ bloody _Potter_.

Every wizard whose home wasn't under a rock had heard that name, and here he was, the Boy Who Lived, walking up to get one of Lockhart's signed books! The man's heart leapt in his chest. It did a funny little jig behind his ribs when he made eye contact with that young boy.

He made up a lie on the spot, anything to get Harry closer to him. And oh, it felt wonderful to finally touch him, to feel the warmth of his body through his clothes, to prove that this moment was real. That sounded objectively creepy but Lockhart didn't care. Here he was, posing with the savior of the wizarding world, smiling into a camera that—with a blinding flash—took a picture that would end up being printed on the covers of multiple newspapers. He told such to Harry excitedly; they'd surely make the front page.

He was crestfallen to see that Harry's expression had turned to what looked suspiciously like a frown.

No time to feel bad! Lockhart gave him a free stack of his books and made an important announcement to the crowd that he'd be teaching that year at Hogwarts. Lockhart was the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, and he stated such proudly. He couldn't wait for the school year to start.

Harry's head turned towards him, his expression now what looked suspiciously like alarm.

But that couldn't be! Could he— _how_ could he know that Lockhart was an unapologetic liar, that he wasn't really fit to teach the class, that— wait.

Or perhaps…?

Why, of course, that made much more sense! Harry was alarmed that he wouldn't be the biggest, brightest presence in the school anymore. Lockhart's arrival would bring competition for the public's attention, and Harry obviously didn't want that. _'He shouldn't worry,'_ Lockhart thought as he watched the twelve-year-old disappear into the crowd. _'I'm more than willing to share the limelight.'_

Very soon after that thought flitted by, a fight broke out between Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy, and Lockhart's mind was briefly distracted from what had just happened.

—

It turned out to be an absolute delight teaching the class. So many young eyes, all focused on him. Many girls giggled when he passed, and he caught snatches of their conversations, how they talked about his outfits and wondered if he'd notice _them_ (he always did). A few of the other professors would look up for an extended moment when he entered the room, even. Lockhart loved it. He'd come to really enjoy being able to bask in this much positive attention.

And yet, Professor Lockhart only had eyes for Harry.

No admitting it anytime soon, no, but Lockhart could very easily trade away all that fame and fortune just for a momentary smile, directed at him and only him, from the twelve year old savior.

He liked to think he was sort of taking the child celebrity under his wing, wanting to show him the ropes and how to traverse the intricate world of fame… how to profit from it eventually. See, people like them had to stick together. Clearly Harry Potter didn't quite know what to do with his status, with the way he constantly shied from the cameras but started giving out autographs way too soon, and it made Lockhart feel all bubbly to think that he could be the one to teach him the proper way to deal with being popular.

So that day in the courtyard, Lockhart had draped his arm across Harry's shoulders and posed for the photo Colin Creevey was taking, and then imparted a bit of his wisdom as they walked to his classroom. "Let me just say that handing out signed pictures at this stage of your career isn't sensible," he had said. Through his hand he could feel the tension in Harry's shoulders. "Looks a tad bigheaded, Harry, to be frank. There may well come a time when, like me, you'll need to keep a stack handy wherever you go— " he chuckled— "but I don't think you're quite there yet."

Lockhart had just wanted to connect with Harry, but feared he might've said something wrong when the boy got to class and piled up his books so high that they couldn't even see each other.

Over the course of the next couple weeks, most of the class seemed to lose the buzzing air whenever he entered a room as the novelty of having him for a teacher wore off. It was disappointing, but to be expected.

—

Lockhart couldn't believe it when he heard McGonagall saying that Ron and Harry had detention, but it hadn't been decided what they'd do. Without much thought, he asked for Harry's help answering some fan mail.

McGonagall looked at him curiously, then nodded and said: "Not the usual sort of punishment, but I can't see why not. How's eight o'clock?"

Oh, but it wouldn't be punishment if he could help it. Lockhart thought he was being generous, in fact, saving Harry from doing something worse like cleaning (which would surely be beneath someone as amazing as him). He gave Professor McGonagall a grin, told her that time would be perfect, and left the staff room to get lunch.

He couldn't wait for the clock to strike eight.

The afternoon passed quickly and found the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor in his office, tapping his fingers on his polished desk and meditating on a specific shade of green. His heartbeat fluttered in his chest. For some reason whenever Harry was around he felt like a child again—small, looking up at some prominent figure with clear adoration.

There was a knock at the door. Lockhart jumped out of his desk and opened the door before even a few seconds had passed, and looked _down_ at a prominent figure with clear adoration.

"Ah, here's the scalawag! Come in, Harry, come in—" He ushered the young wizard into his office, leading him to a chair he'd pulled beside his own at his desk. "You can address the envelopes! This first one's to Gladys Gudgeon, bless her—huge fan of mine."

Harry nodded absently and sat down, taking the envelope from Lockhart's outstretched hand and setting it on the desk. He had to borrow one of Lockhart's fabulous quills, and the professor couldn't help but note that the feather's teal hue looked lovely contrasted with his skin. How can a person look so pretty?!

Soon enough, Lockhart found himself reading through the letters (sometimes aloud when a particularly nice compliment was written there), writing quick responses, and glancing up every few minutes at Harry.

Gosh. He was so close. Lockhart could hear the steady rhythm of his breaths, could scoot over just a bit and knock knees with him. Honestly, he couldn't stay away. He _couldn't_ not stare so openly.

As the first hour melted into the second and then into the third, Lockhart found himself pushing the letters away and resting his head in his hand, the elbow on the polished wooden desk, turning to face Harry—giving him his undivided attention—and started to talk. "I suspect in a few years' time you'll do even greater things," he said. "Lots of great deeds, monsters to fight, dark lords to overcome."

"Right," Harry said, scrawling more lilac ink on a pristine envelope.

"I guess I have to warn you that if you don't, well, the public might forget you." Lockhart watched carefully as Harry set down the quill for a second, interlocked his fingers and stretched his wrists and hands, and then resumed addressing the pile of letters that had built up after Lockhart finished writing them. "Fame's a fickle friend, Harry, it doesn't often stick around unless you actively work to keep it. Even I have to keep up appearances, although it would certainly take years before _my_ fan-base died down if I were to retire today."

There was something beautiful about saying the young wizard's name. _Harry_. It tasted sweet on his tongue.

Casting a glance at the clock, warmly illuminated by the candles around the room, Lockhart realized it was past 11. Funny how time flies. He really should let Harry go to bed now, but… but he didn't want to. Not just yet. Not when he finally had him alone.

…That definitely was an objectively creepy thing to say, but again, Lockhart didn't care.

Harry yawned beside him.

"Having a consistent, easily-recognizable signature is a key part of maintaining a strong sense of self once you reach the top. You've already got the name down— _everyone_ knows who you are—but when in a few years' time, when you're a bit more successful and people will ask you to sign their belongings, you'll need to be prepared for that. See here—" Lockhart pulled out a blank piece of parchment and set it down on the desk.

The young wizard rubbed his eyes and turned to look down at it, clearly tired. Even with the dark circles under his eyes, Harry was a gorgeous boy.

Lockhart's words nearly faltered as he gazed at his student, but he continued on. "See, I've had a few years' worth of time to perfect mine." He wrote with gold ink, the swooping, bold yet careful strokes spelling out _'Gilderoy Lockhart'_ —the 'G' and 'L' were exaggerated to frame the rest of the letters. "I've seen the way you scribble your name on your assignments, Harry, and it simply won't do. You should practice."

"Oh, um…" Harry hesitated, before slowly lowering the lilac-inked quill to the parchment and writing his name out plainly.

"No, no, Harry," Lockhart admonished gently. "That's too boring—add some flair! What about a curl on the 'Y'?"

He tried again, his letters a little more cursive than the first time, and the tail of the 'Y' stretched out to underline his first name.

"Hmm…" Lockhart regarded the signature thoughtfully. "It just doesn't feel like you, somehow… oh, I know!" He took his own pen and wrote out Harry's name, turning the descending line on the 'P' into a lightning strike reminiscent of the scar on his forehead. "There. It could do with some tweaking, but I do believe we have a start!"

Harry frowned. "A reference to my scar?"

"Why, that's the source of your fame: your defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named! Wizards all across the country recognize the lightning bolt. It's part of who you are, and that's why it will do so well on a signature!"

The boy nodded and sighed. "Yeah, I see."

"Why don't you try again? Here, let's pretend I'm a great fan of yours, and I want you to sign a photo." Lockhart pulled a newspaper clipping out of the drawer in his desk, a black-and-white photo with a tiny Harry that was currently trying to hide his face behind his hands and glaring out at his real-life counterpart's professor. He set the picture down in front of the student. "Can I have your autograph?" he asked with a cheeky smile.

The real-life Harry's face had turned slightly red. "Sure," he said. He lowered the lilac quill and wrote out his name, glancing frequently up at the one Lockhart had wrote while changing some details it to his liking. He lifted the quill and shoved the picture into Lockhart's hands.

"Very good, Harry, well done. Be mindful of placement in the future, though," Lockhart advised, bemused by the way the signature covered up mini-Harry's face. Despite that little mistake, Lockhart looked at the signature with growing reverence. He put it back in the drawer, daring not to smudge the drying ink. This was going to be treasured forever, probably. He made a mental note to put it with the first copies of his published books that he kept in a special suitcase.

When he turned back around, he found himself staring right into Harry's exhausted, verdant eyes.

Hardly even thinking, Lockhart reached and took Harry's hands in his own, rubbing his thumbs on the palms. The boy shivered slightly. "Professor?"

Was he just imagining things, or did Harry sound nervous about something? Truth be told, Lockhart felt nervous too, that childish wonder and adoration bubbling up again. Still, he couldn't believe he was talking to the famous Potter in person, and couldn't believe his luck.

"Professor Lockhart, it's getting late and—" Harry cut himself off when Lockhart lifted one of the hands to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss into his palm. A soft gasp left his parted lips.

Lockhart looked up and felt his own cheeks warm at the sight, how fiercely Harry was blushing now. He moved automatically, sliding his grip up to Harry's shoulders and leaning in close, close enough to feel the boy's breath against his face. His black hair stuck out in every which way, and it looked absolutely perfect.

"What are you… er, Professor Lockhart, I don't know if this is really appropriate—"

"Oh, hush now, Harry." What a sweet tasting name. He closed the distance and then their lips were brushing together gently, chaste compared to encounters Lockhart had had in the past, but he didn't dare go faster. Harry was twelve; he didn't know how to kiss yet.

The wind seemed to hiss through the crack in the window, and in his grasp Harry startled.

"Relax, it's okay," Lockhart soothed. There was a warmth pooling in his gut.

"No, you don't understand, I thought I heard a voice, or… or something—" Harry's sentence cut off with a hitched breath as Lockhart pressed his face into the boy's neck and kissed the smooth skin there.

"We're alone here; you're probably just drowsy," he murmured, pulling the boy closer.

Harry attempted to sit up, but the older wizard kept him firmly in place. "This isn't right…"

"Anything's okay as long as you don't get caught."

The boy paled rapidly, that blush seeping from his cheeks and leaving him cold and sweating. "Professor— _really_ , I—"

He was cut off with another gentle kiss. Lockhart was taking this slow, and let his touch wander to tangle in the boy's hair, his other hand caressing down the length of Harry's side to hold his waist, itching to get beneath the shirt. Still, he exercised some self restraint and didn't go that far. Harry was too young.

But kissing's okay, right? It's just a kiss. It's just something soft and sweet and— and _oh_ , the quiet noise Harry made in the back of his throat was absolutely wonderful. He wished he could put that in the suitcase too, to save it and treasure it.

"Have you ever kissed anyone before?"

Harry shook his head, but his eyes weren't on Lockhart at all. He seemed to be staring at a corner of the room, eyes wide, but a glance over his shoulder showed that nothing was there. He inwardly shrugged.

Something deep in him twitched contentedly at Harry's response, the fact that he was so innocent and that out of everyone in the wide world, it was Gilderoy Lockhart who stole his first kiss. He couldn't believe his luck. He really couldn't.

Breathless already, Lockhart pressed their lips together again, this time more fervently, his head angling as it grew more passionate. Harry made another soft noise, jerking as if he was trying to get away.

The hand on his hip finally overcame the inward battle and sneaked under Harry's shirt, gliding across the thin body and pushing the shirt up. Lockhart broke their connection only long enough to slip the shirt off, throwing it to the floor and marvelling at the sight of that pale body, half-exposed for his eyes only.

Okay, fine, he couldn't deny it. He wanted to go farther.

And what Harry soon wouldn't remember wouldn't hurt him.

So when the boy attempted to stand up and run, Lockhart's grip tightened and dragged him back, pulling him onto his lap. "Harry, dear," he breathed. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Harry's voice was shaking. "I'm not ready! I don't— I don't want this."

"Sure you do. Or you will soon, once you know how nice it feels. It's really not a bad thing, love."

Not waiting for Harry to respond, he pulled him back into another kiss, delighting in the sensation. How many people got to kiss their celebrity crush?

He fumbled with Harry's pants, but managed to get them partway off without the young wizard escaping. Lockhart didn't unclothe himself at all because he wasn't going to risk that sort of love-making right now, but he could touch Harry. Yes, he could do that without leaving a single visible mark.

Running a hand along the inner thigh, Lockhart smiled at the sight of this virgin area, beyond ecstatic that he'd be the first one to touch it in this way, that he could teach Harry about so much more than defense against the dark arts or even how to navigate the world of fame. The boy keened, legs jerking at the intimacy of it all.

"Professor!" he gasped. "Don't—"

Lockhart didn't bother to listen to anything else he said. "You can call me Gilderoy," he murmured, kissing Harry's shoulder and stroking his small cock.

The boy shuddered, fingernails digging into the professor's back. His breathing was becoming uneven and he whined again as Lockhart continued to touch him, patiently rubbing his growing erection. Only a minute later Harry came, making a startled sort of choking sound.

"Wow, that was fast," Lockhart laughed. "Ah, to be young…"

He'd been turned on hopelessly by this, and now began to reconsider his own moral standards. It was just supposed to be a kiss, but he still wanted more, and what Harry wouldn't remember wouldn't hurt him. Lockhart just had to be careful.

A fleeting glance at the clock revealed that the hour was nearing midnight.

Okay… so what if he _did_ risk it?

Harry leaned heavily against his professor, panting and exhausted. Thankfully, he didn't move or struggle that much when Lockhart prodded at his ass, fondling a place that had surely never been touched by anyone else. With a little bit of his own brand's lotion (lilac-scented; adds a magical sheen to your skin, nourishing _and_ hydrating!) he stuck a finger up there, so carefully, so gently opening up his student. Can't have any discomfort now could he? He didn't want to hurt Harry.

One finger became two, then three, with Harry's noises in his ear like _music_ the whole time, arousing him until Lockhart could hardly stand it anymore, and he unbuckled his own pants with shaky hands. "Stay still, Harry," he ordered, gripping the twelve-year-old's waist and steadying him above his own leaking cock.

"Wait, no…"

Lockhart waved that away with a laugh. "Don't be silly, dear, I'm not going to let you wriggle around and hurt yourself or anything. There's nothing to fear."

Then he was enveloped in a tight warmth, Harry cried aloud, and everything was perfect.

—

Harry remembered walking into Lockhart's office, dreading the boring task he'd been assigned for detention. He remembered writing the addresses on envelopes for at least three hours, until the muscles in his hand and wrist were cramping and his eyes felt tired and dry. He remembered hearing Lockhart's annoying voice go on and _on_ about his fans, and he vaguely remembered Lockhart giving him a lesson on how to properly autograph something.

And then... then he woke up?

"Oh, no," Harry looked at the clock. "I think I fell asleep."

Lockhart was watching him with a curious expression, but Harry didn't think much of it, just stood up and shrugged an obnoxious lemon-yellow robe off from where it had been draped over his shoulders like a blanket.

"How long have I been out?" he asked groggily. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

"You looked like you could use the rest," his professor said, swerving around the first question. "I think you've served detention enough now, so... off to bed with you!" He shooed Harry out of the room and closed the office door quickly, leaving the confused and exhausted boy alone in the empty second floor hall. 

By the time he reached the Gryffindor common room, Ron had already been there for a half hour, and they swapped their complaints about their respective tasks. Polishing badges hadn't been any better, apparently.

Throughout their conversation, before they both went up to the dorms to pass out, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that he'd forgotten something important. It scratched at the back of his mind, that there was something else that happened that he should remember, something important just barely out of reach. 

...Oh well, what he didn't remember wouldn't hurt him, right? 

**Author's Note:**

> i feel like the memory charm could've been used for so much worse than stealing the credit for other magical folk's heroic deeds and this is the essay to prove it lol


End file.
